Say It All
by Loretta Lyon
Summary: After asking Castle to give her space, Kate Beckett begins to take stock of her life. Recognizing that she is an emotional cripple as far as Rick is concerned, she takes a baby step by reaching out to him in a letter.  Rating due to coarse language.
1. Pen to Paper

A/N: This is something that has been bouncing around in my head for a while. It is a part of the "I Reject Your Reality and Substitute My Own" story collection that I store in my head.

Everything through the end of the third season exists in my reality, although I have added a few family members to Kate's family tree. Everyone needs family.

I am departing from the events in season four. If you don't like that choice, please do not read any further.

It goes without saying that I own nothing.

In the document below italicized words with slashes - /_like this_/ indicate words that Kate crossed out in her letter.

The title comes from the Cake song, Shadow Stabbing.

* * *

><p>Say It All<p>

Summary: After asking Castle to give her space, a recovering Kate Beckett begins to take stock of her life and decides what things are important to her. Recognizing that she is an emotional cripple as far as Rick is concerned, she takes a baby step to reach out to him. A letter is an odd tool to choose when trying to break down a wall, but if she keeps this keeps up, it may be surprisingly effective.

* * *

><p>July 17, 2011<p>

/_Castle_/ Rick,

I like rules. Or rather, I like the illusion of safety that rules provide to me.

I am well aware of how much of a **shock** that is to you, my preference for rules - or safety. Sometimes it seems that the more arbitrary the rules, the better I like them.

When I was younger, I would sometimes hang out with my cousins. Around dinnertime, we'd all be given chores. Frankie, the youngest and only boy, generally had to set the table. Whenever I was over, he would make sure to set the forks on the right side and the knives and spoons on the left.

Given that you are– despite the number of times I've accused you of being a nine year old on a sugar high – quite polished when in polite company, you already understand the WRONGNESS of Frank's table setting decisions.

I suppose it was a kind of game for us. He watched me go all twitchy when I noticed the wrongness. I tried not to react. I will admit that I generally lost, because it was more important to me to have the silverware set properly than to "win." (Yes, I chose to lose. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

Not that you needed additional proof of my preference for structure….

All that being said, here are the rules. These rules are completely arbitrary, but I need to explicitly spell them out, otherwise I will talk myself out of a lot of things.

- Once I start writing a letter, I cannot throw it out and start over.

Why? Because I will manage to drive myself crazy over how imperfect every letter is. Every letter will end up in the trash, and I will never communicate with you. This will lead to my feeling frustrated and guilty. I refuse to allow that to happen.

- I am, however, allowed to cross out bits and pieces of the letter (my maternal grandmother always insisted that it was a woman's duty to embrace the ability and right to change one's mind - a god-given right, or some such nonsense. In this case, her beliefs work for me).

- Once I start a letter, I must finish it.

The ending can be as lame as "I don't want to write anymore today. Sincerely…."

Why letters?

Before I get into that, I want to say something important.

Thank you for giving me space. Thank you for…well, not for understanding. I'm not entirely sure that you do. But you gave – are giving me – exactly what I asked for, and I truly appreciate it.

My Uncle Lou – my dad's brother – has macular degeneration. When he started losing his eyesight, my dad tried to help, tried to be there for him. Uncle Lou continually pushed him – and most of the family away. Even his wife was pushed away. I know it hurt my dad a lot, wanting to help, but being shut out. If I understand Uncle Lou at all, I'd say he was so afraid that he would be completely helpless if he let people do for him. At least there was some comfort for him in knowing that he pushed himself really hard to adjust to his blindness.

/_I know_/ I think that my request for time and space has hurt you. /_I regret that, but I can't_/ I'm sorry. /_With all of my heart, I am sorry. I don't suppose the apology is worth much, but it is true, never the less._/

I'm staying with my dad right now. Did you know that? There seemed to be a list of people ready and willing to hover over me and fuss. /_Since I'm trying not to be entirely like Uncle Lou, I'm doing my best to exercise my rather limit patience._/ I figured Dad needs me most.

He'd be hurt and offended, I think, if he knew that I was staying with him because I think of him as being fragile. I have no plans to tell him. /_You tell him and I will not only deny it, but I will hunt you down and make you_/

/_Dad's doing his best not to hover, but_/

I appreciate the breathing room more than I can say. /_I hate words. There is no easy, unaffected, and sincere way to tell you that you have given me a gift that means more to me than I can say. I trust you, and I thank you, and I appreciate you. But every time I try to write it out, it sounds fake and horrible. I HATE words! How can you stand to work with the bloody, stupid, fucking things every day?_/

Oh, and one more thing that you need to know. /_(Another stupid thing I want to communicate, but always comes out wrong, wrong, WRONG!)_/

I heard about what /_the jackass_/ Josh said to you. I am sorrier than I can say.

I liked him, you know. We were easy together. Uncomplicated. I don't know that we would have made it for the long haul, but I almost didn't have to think when he was around. /_(That was probably part of the problem. I don't know that he ever really cared what I was thinking. Maybe...probably...I didn't care what he was really thinking, either.)_/

Despite the…whatever it was that we were settling for, what he said to you – accusing you of being at fault – is a load of crap. He had no right to say those things.

He claims that he was overwrought, stunned by my sudden appearance in his OR. If that was the case, though, he should have had no problem apologizing to you for it.

He refused.

Jackass.

We broke up because we really weren't right for each other, but his treatment of you…it was a factor. You deserve so much better.

Esposito mentioned that you have said things to the effect that you are to blame.

Bullshit, Castle. That's bullshit and you get that thought out of your head right now.

- You did not pull the trigger.

- I'm a cop. I'm in the line of fire. I chose this life and I know the potential consequences.

- You have done nothing but try to protect me in so many ways since the beginning. You have nothing to regret or beat yourself up over.

Your new mantra – should you need it – "It's not my fault. It's not my fault."

I will make you write it 500 times if I suspect at all that you are still guilty of being an idiot and buying into that crap.

Besides, you should know by now that I am always right.

Now, back to why I'm writing a letter to you:

(I'm going to keep this short, because I find that I'm tired of writing.)

Cassie is my cousin and she is three years older than I am.

When she went off to college, I started the habit of writing to her. Email was around, but it was more satisfying for me to write – pen to paper – to her.

I never really wrote anything important. What could I have been writing to her that was earth shattering? I was in high school, for the love of god.

I wrote to her because I missed her. I wrote to her because I wanted to make her smile. I suppose, in the self-centeredness of youth, I wrote to her because I didn't want her to ever think that we – her family – had forgotten her while she was away.

I'm writing to you because I miss you, even if I'm not ready for you to see me.

I'm cranky – even when I'm trying to be patient. I don't like snapping at people – and I'd rather not take my bad temper out on you. I'm really angry…all-the-time angry...I-wish-I-could-justify-throwing-dishes-at-the-wall-so-I-can-hear-the-very-satisfying-crash angry. I hate going to therapy – physical and mental, both, but I'm doing it because I have to, because it'll make me (shudder) better. /_The appointments with the psychologist are the worst. I dread them. I endure them. I feel completely wrung out afterwards. Perhaps I wish I could strangle my perky, blonde physical therapist for the completely inane things she chirps out while she is busy torturing me. That I can bear: her pain-in-the-ass perkiness. The psychology appointments, though, are hell._/

I'm writing to you because I don't want you to ever think that I have forgotten you, or discarded you, or whatever. /_(Oh, that's eloquent, Kate. Nice to know that you have a solid grasp of the English language.)_/

I will write again later.

Kate

P.S. I spent a good twenty minutes debating if I should add this note or not. I can't seem to stop myself from prefacing this with how much I appreciate you giving me space. If you want to, ONLY if you WANT to, you may write back. You have my email address. I might stick with pen and paper, though, so if you decide to reply/_...and you may not want to. For all I know you are completely pissed at me. Well, fuck,_/ I'm over thinking this. It's your choice. The End.


	2. Start of Secrets

A/N: This is something that has been bouncing around in my head for a while. It is a part of the "I Reject Your Reality and Substitute My Own" story collection that I store in my head.

Everything through the end of the third season exists in my reality, although I have added a few family members to Kate's family tree. Everyone needs family.

I am departing from the events in season four. If you don't like that choice, please do not read any further.

It goes without saying that I own nothing.

In the document below italicized words with slashes - /_like this/_ indicate words that Kate crossed out in her letter_._

The story title comes from the Cake song, Shadow Stabbing.

* * *

><p>Say It All<p>

Summary: After asking Castle to give her space, a recovering Kate Beckett begins to take stock of her life and decides what things are important to her. Recognizing that she is an emotional cripple as far as Rick is concerned, she takes a baby step to reach out to him. A letter is an odd tool to choose when trying to break down a wall, but if she keeps this keeps up, it may be surprisingly effective.

* * *

><p>Chapter 2: The Start of a Secret<p>

…_And I took a walk with Abby's husband and son today. David is a year and some odd months. Right now he is about my favorite person. Of course, he has the very nice habit of not asking me whether or not I should be doing this, that, or the other thing. As long as I play peek-a-boo with him, he's content._

_/I managed to summon my courage and/ I dropped your letter into the mailbox. I expect you to receive it by Wednesday._

- Letter from Kate Beckett to Rick Castle, dated July 18, 2011

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><p>The sun was starting to stain the sky sorbet colors, but the heat lingered. Or perhaps it was the humidity that sapped the strength of even the most energetic New Yorker. The meager breeze that moved fitfully did little to alleviate anyone's discomfort.<p>

The bright, lithe form of Alexis Castle moved agilely down the block towards the apartment building. Shooting a friendly wave and grin to the doorman, she almost sighed as she welcomed the comfort of the air conditioned lobby. Her first stop was to collect the mail from her family's box. As she turned to take the elevator up, Alexis flipped through the few pieces of post: cable bill, offer from credit card company, and…

Alexis' breath caught when she saw the handwritten envelope. It was address to Mr. Richard Castle; the return address clearly read, "K. Beckett."

Kate Beckett. Detective Kate Beckett. Her father's "muse" had written him a letter.

Why? What on earth could Detective Beckett possibly have to communicate to her dad that made a letter necessary? Why not just pick up the phone or drop him an email?

Preoccupied by the strange letter, Alexis allowed her auto pilot get her to the apartment door. Stopped there, her eyes flicked from the letter in her hand to the door and back again.

Slowly, dazedly, Alexis opened her bag. She watched her hand as it slipped the letter in between her Kindle and her wallet. Taking a deep breath, she shouldered her purse again, then reached out with the keys still clutched in her right hand. She schooled her face into its normal, cheerful lines and stuck the key into the lock.

"Hey, Dad." She thought she sounded perfectly normal. "I'm back."


	3. Risking Rejection

A/N: This is something that has been bouncing around in my head for a while. It is a part of the "I Reject Your Reality and Substitute My Own" story collection that I store in my head.

Everything through the end of the third season exists in my reality, although I have added a few family members to Kate's family tree. Everyone needs family.

I am departing from the events in season four. If you don't like that choice, please do not read any further.

It goes without saying that I own nothing.

In the document below regular words with slashes - /like this/ indicate text messages (but that should be clear from the context of the story…I hope).

The story title comes from the Cake song, Shadow Stabbing.

* * *

><p>Say It All<p>

Summary: After asking Castle to give her space, a recovering Kate Beckett begins to take stock of her life and decides what things are important to her. Recognizing that she is an emotional cripple as far as Rick is concerned, she takes a baby step to reach out to him. A letter is an odd tool to choose when trying to break down a wall, but if she keeps this keeps up, it may be surprisingly effective.

* * *

><p>Chapter 3: Risking Rejection<p>

It had been nine long weeks of no word from Kate, and Richard Castle had stopped believing that she would ever contact him again.

Depending on the time of day and how the wind was blowing, that mostly believed fact devastated him or infuriated him.

It was rare for him to experience times of hope as far as his relationship with Kate was concerned.

There were times when he just felt numb.

That numbness was as close to contented as Rick came nowadays.

Kate's luck was incredible, then, that the first text message she'd sent to him in 60 days fell during one of the rare, quiet, calm, numb times.

/Are you busy?/

Rick had noticed early on that Kate refused to abbreviate in her text messages. He'd also heard Lanie tease her about being lacking in technological savvy, but Kate only sniffed and replied loftily that being technologically savvy had nothing to do with being grammatically lazy.

Despite her occasional willingness ignore a variety of regulations in her job; Beckett was decidedly fond of rules.

/Kate?/

/Yes./

/Is everything ok?/

Even with his imagination, Rick was only able to hypothesize about the crises that could have pushed Beckett to contact him after all this time.

/Yes. Are You Busy?/

It was confounding how he could almost hear the exasperation in her tone. Rick thought it was a bit unfair that she should be exasperated by a valid response of disbelief and concern on his part.

/No. Y?/

/Are you at home? Can you turn on channel 13?/

It was a mystery to him why Beckett wanted him to tune into the local PBS station. Still feeling a bit numb and even more dazed, he complied.

There was a run of advertisements that WNET showed between programs.

/What am I looking at?/

/I don't know. I'm not there. What are you looking at?/

That startled a laugh out of him.

/Smartass/

/:-) Nothing, yet. It's coming on shortly./

Rick settled onto the couch and watched as an arts and entertainment show started.

/Who is jonathan coulton?/

/A musician. You aren't familiar with him?/

Castle was about to reply to that when Kate texted again.

/And you call yourself a nerd…/

What was going on? Out of the blue Beckett was texting him and acting as though the nine weeks of no communication at all simply hadn't happened.

/Just watch. His music reminds me of you./

Castle frowned at that. /How so?/

/Wait./

Rick waited. While he waited, he watched the interview with Jonathan Coulton, the musician who apparently reminded Beckett of him.

/Sorry. Had to look something up./

He waited some more, and found himself treated to a song called Code Monkey. It was a bit on the awesome side.

/Did you play the video game "Portal?" He wrote the song "Still Alive" that plays at the end./

/Did you play portal?/ Castle had to ask. /cause i cannot see you playing video games./

/XP/

/Did you just stick your tongue out at me?/

/I have not played "Portal" or any other video game. It is just one of the bits of trivia I know about JoCo./

/JoCo? Really?/

/Shhh! Listen. One of my favorites./

Coulton, on tv, was introducing a song called "Skullcrusher Mountain." By the time the song was through its first verse, Rick couldn't help the grin on his face.

He sat through the rest of the program. There were only two more songs, both from his new album. In between the songs, the interviewer asked Coulton questions about his music, the writing process, and the fans. When the credits started to roll, Rick turned off his tv, then looked pensively at his phone.

She hadn't sent another message since her last.

But still, she'd sent a message.

Did that mean that it was okay for him to text her now?

He pondered that, pondered what he wanted to do, pondered the dread he felt about another rejection.

Finally, he decided to keep it simple and to toss the ball back into her court, so to speak.

/Thanks. I liked it./

The five minutes it took for Kate to text back were agonizing.

/I'm glad. I am a fan of John Hodgman, and first heard some of JoCo's songs because of him./

A pause, then another text from Kate came through. /I'm glad you had a chance to see the interview./

Before Castle could formulate a reply, a final text arrived.

/If you want, I'll send the cd I have of his with my next letter./

Castle thought he'd felt numb before, that he'd had periods of calm that he'd mistaken for numbness. It turns out that he was completely, utterly, and incredibly wrong. Now he had the oddest sensation of not being able to feel his body. Still, he managed to type a response.

/What letter?/


End file.
